Page 49

FORTY-EIGHT

SHERIFF HUDSON

Lieutenant Nagel’s name lights up across my phone screen. I swiftly answer it, thinking maybe we got word from another police station that Scott’s been spotted.

“Nagel, what’s up?”

“We followed Bob to an abandoned farmhouse south of Greenwich off of 603. We’re parked a little down the road to ensure our cover wasn’t blown, but we just heard shots fired. What do you want us to do?”

I bolt from my chair, grabbing my utility belt off the rack. “Stay there. Wait for backup. I’m on my way now.”

I hang up the phone and race to Olson’s office. “Shots fired. Come on.”

Without saying a word, she’s on her feet and running right behind me.

I press the button on my radio, calling for all available units.

In my squad car, I flick on the sirens and press down the gas pedal, the engine being pushed to its limit as the RPM needle goes deep into the red.

“What’s going on?” Olson yells over the screaming siren.

“Nagel and his team followed Bob to an abandoned farmhouse. Shots were fired a few minutes after he entered. They’re standing by for backup in case we have a hostage situation on our hands.” She nods in response and draws her gun from her holster, looking it over, pulling back the slide and ejecting the clip to check that it’s full.

We’re on the scene in under twelve minutes. The SWAT team beat us there, and they’re prepping at the back of their van as Olson and I exit the vehicle. The SWAT commander is animated, giving them directions, his arms flailing and pointing wildly to different entrance points of the building. Portable lighting has already been set up, illuminating the area surrounding the front of the house. The structure before us is rotten. Slats of wood are completely missing, and the foundation looks as though it’s ready to collapse in on itself.

Nagel jogs over to greet us.

“What’s going on?” I ask, surveying the scene.

Lieutenant Nagel quickly rattles off the few available details. “Same as before. Bob Miller entered, and a few minutes later we heard two gunshots. We had property records checked and no owner is listed, so we have no idea who all could be inside.”

“Is it a hostage situation?” Olson asks.

“SWAT isn’t sure, and there’s been no response from anyone inside, which usually isn’t the case in a?—”

A piercing scream rips through the air, originating from the abandoned house. Everyone freezes in an instant, all looking to where the sound came from. A person can bleed out from a gunshot wound in minutes and we already spent all of those on the drive over. Screw it.

“I’m going in,” I say, sprinting toward the house.

“Sheriff, wait! Let my team clear it first,” the SWAT commander shouts as I run past him. I can’t wait. I took an oath to protect and serve my community, and I’m not going to let someone suffer or die while we formulate the best plan of action. Putting my own life at risk is what I signed up for.

“Damn it! Squad, move out now,” I hear the commander yell behind me as I breach the entrance.

My Glock enters the house first, my arms extended out in front of me. A damp cloud of mildew hangs in the air. I flick a switch, but nothing turns on, so I grab my flashlight and click on the beam, panning it across the room. A table is flipped over, and the floor is littered with debris, shattered glass, and toppled chairs. There are dark smears and droplets of what I presume is blood on the furniture and floor. Insects scurry through thick dust, leaving trails behind them.

“This is the police! Is anyone in here?” I call out.

“Help!” a woman screams, but it comes from below me.

I frantically search the house, trying not to trip over any of the objects spread across the rotting floor. Blood splatter stipples cracked drywall that appears to have had something or someone thrown into it. Past a swinging door, I enter a kitchen set at the back of the house. Cockroaches scatter when the beam from my flashlight sweeps across them. At the far end of the room, off to the right, a doorframe ablaze with a yellow glow catches my eye. My boots crunch over broken glass as I move toward the open door. A set of stairs descends into a cellar, and at the bottom of the steps, I can see the pant legs and shoes of someone on the ground. There’s commotion from the other end of the house now. Officers enter, calling out, “Clear,” as they check each room.

I hear Olson yell my name.

“Marcus.”

She never uses my first name on the job... so I know she’s scared, but I don’t answer because my eyes are fixated on the motionless person lying in the cellar.

“Prince William County Sheriff’s Office!” I call down.

“Please, you have to help me!” a woman yells back.

I start to descend the stairs, gun drawn in front of me, taking them slowly. They creak beneath my boots, and I notice drops of blood leading all the way down them. Pam is now at my back, but she’s quiet. She rests her hand on my shoulder and squeezes once, letting me know she has my six covered. I crouch slightly as I move down the stairs, so I’m able to see beneath the ceiling line into the basement before I reach the bottom of the steps. The first thing I notice is Bob Miller, lying face down on the concrete, his head craned to the side, eyes still open, lifeless. I don’t have to check his pulse to know he’s already gone. Descending another step and looking to the right, I can see an old, stained mattress, a chain tethered to a support beam, and a pool of dried blood. One more step, and I can finally see the woman a little off to the left, her ankle chained to a pole and her arms outstretched in front of her with a revolver clutched in her hands.

“Ma’am! Put the gun down,” I say calmly.

“He killed her, and he was going to kill me too,” she cries out.

“I hear you and I believe you, but you have to put the gun down,” I say, planting my boots firmly on the concrete floor, so we’re in full view of each other. I hold up one hand while the other grips my gun at my side. I don’t want her to feel any more in danger than she already does, but if I have to draw up again to protect myself and Pam, I will. Her red hair is matted, going in all directions, and tears streak her face, which is covered in dirt and grime. I recognize her immediately. How could I not? Her photo has hung on the wall of the briefing room for the past week.

Stacy Howard blinks several times like she can’t believe her own eyes, as though she’s trying to convince herself that I’m real and she truly is safe now. She looks at the gun clasped in her hands, then at the body on the floor, and then back to the gun. The firearm shakes, and with a quick movement, she finally pitches it toward me, sending it skidding across the floor.

I holster my weapon and bend down, placing two fingers on Bob’s neck. No pulse, just as I suspected. I glance back at Olson and shake my head, signaling that he’s dead.

I move toward Stacy, not too fast. “You’re going to be okay now.”

She holds her face in her hands, rocking back and forth, trembling, and I don’t blame her. From what I can make of this cellar, it’s the stuff of nightmares.

“I had to do it. I had to do it,” Stacy says, weeping uncontrollably.